


Hammer to Fall

by queen_kumquat



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: 1980s, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, references to non-consensual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_kumquat/pseuds/queen_kumquat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by AO3 fics suggesting that Patrick is gay and Peter might be gay, and a post read the same day which asked about Soho porn shops in the 1980s.</p>
<p>There's a shop in Soho which is a wonderful art bookshop on the ground floor, while the basement stock is somewhat... different, to the shock of many a tourist.<br/>You just know that if Peter Marlow went to London, he'd accidentally end up down there, and it would be down to Patrick to find him.<br/>Also exploring the cliche that boys have sex at boarding school, girls don't, and how that might have affected Peter and Patrick differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer to Fall

“Ah, Patrick! I've been given these tickets to see Henry V in the West End, for the matinee this afternoon, and it's not my thing - you should go. Here's money for the train, and go ask the Marlows who would be best to go with you.” Patrick groaned at a volume he hoped his mother couldn't hear, and got up to use the telephone. Fortunately, as far as Patrick was concerned, Mrs Marlow answered.

“Mmm, I see,” she said. “Henry? Peter is doing that for his exams - I'll send him to meet you.” She found Peter and hurried him along, before Lawrie could notice and complain that it wasn't fair and _she_ should have had the ticket.

Patrick, much relieved that the excursion was not to involve the awkwardness of being around Ginty, nor the hidden resentment of Nicola, forcedly cheerful, nor even the general tryingness of Lawrie, waited at the station for Peter. Though it dawned on him that he _would_ have to deal with Peter's general inability to cope, drumming his fingers as the time approached 10:23 and he was still alone. At last, a dishevelled Peter ran onto the platform, one minute before the train was due, and the shiny new diesel shrieked to a halt moments later.

Peter grinned at him, slight sheepishness outweighed by Marlow confidence, as usual. "I tried to _tell_ Ma, I'm doing Henry _IV_ for O-level, not the Fifth, but she wasn't having it - said I was spending too much time at the books this hols, and the theatre would give me a 'much-needed sense of perspective', _she_ said. And she said the Fourth wouldn't make sense without Fifth - made it sound like Doctor Who - then _Nick_ wanted to know what was going on, and with the quizzing _she_ did, we started to think our eyes were deceiving us and she was actually Lawrie... Anyhow, I'm always up for a trip to London. _Such_ a shame we had to leave Hampstead, just as the folks were becoming willing to let their second-born son out to roam." Peter paused, remembering the circumstances of their move to Trennels, followed by the Merricks' occupation of their old house, and then found himself foolishly open-mouthed and silent, realising that Cousin Jon's death had affected Patrick, growing up next door, more than any of them. 

Patrick changed the subject. “Yes, should be a decent enough show, if it's got to be Shakespeare. Should be time to browse some of the bookshops on the Charing Cross Road after, if not before.” They munched companionably on the lunches Mrs Bertie had packed for Peter and that Patrick had scrounged for himself, until they arrived at Waterloo. Patrick flexed his Capitalcard distastefully - the orange credit-card sized paper didn't feel like a ticket to him, not like the familiar stiff cardboard tickets. They emerged from the warm rubber-scented Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road without incident. and wandered down to Cambridge Circus, eyes flicking down alleyways into Soho, where neon signs and scrawled posters offered “Adult Books”, “GIRLS”, and “VIDS”.

Shortly, it occurred to them that the crowd dithering on the steps of the theatre was being more than usually incompetent at transferring itself into its seats, and they stood still as a short woman with large megaphone climbed onto a chair, to announce that Mr Redgrave was sadly indisposed, and, owing to technical issues, the matinee would be delayed by approximately an hour-and-a-half.

Peter and Patrick simultaneously slunk backwards out of the crowd, unperturbed, and set to the nearest second-hand bookshop. The first proved too highbrow, but they had more luck in the next, where squeezing through some shelves to a back cave and down rough steps to a damp-smelling cellar yielded various pulp paperback bargains. Peter automatically reached for one whose cover depicted a large-breasted damsel in distress, then left it, reasoning he wasn't at Dartmouth now. He picked up an extra James Bond, instead.

Returning to the street, they noticed pub signs and nodded to each other. Patrick's reasonable assumption - that they would each nurse half a cider and keep a low profile consistent with under-age drinkers - was blown away when Peter saw the pool table, went to line up his shiny 20p coin, and had "Winner stays on" growled at him, which made Patrick shrug and give up on the idea of a game, but Peter nodded and let his coin stay. Peter must spend most of his spare time at Dartmouth on the pool table, Patrick reasoned, for the burly chap was soon spitting, and Peter beckoned Patrick over for a game. Patrick lost, and resignedly downed the rest of his glass. Burly then challenged Peter, pint up, followed by him buying Peter a pint. Peter, clearly in his element and not yet affected by the cider, challenged back. Patrick, noticing Burly's heavy and tattooed friends watching and laughing, suggested this might not be the greatest idea, but Peter was revelling in being king of the table and insisted. It came to the black. Peter sank it as fast as a bullet. Then Burly insisted Peter had failed to nominate a pocket, Peter insisted hotly that he had won fair and square and Burly should pay up, and Burly was squaring up for a swing. Patrick suggested that it was a good game and how about he and Burly and Peter all chip in for a round? Make that a round of spirits. Calculating rapidly that this would be a cheap drink for them, Burly's two bulky friends persuaded Burly to go along with this. They all downed what was in front of them, and then Burly's mate Fatty was reminded of his recent win on the gees and persuaded to get the chasers in – doubles all round. Fatty lost to Peter on the black on the next round, and bought pints again. Patrick took a deep breath, figured Shakespeare would probably be improved by being tiddly – weren't all the groundlings at the Globe and Rose usually a drunken mob? - and gulped half of it. After which Burly suggested a decider to Peter, who tipsily agreed, and stottered off to the gents while Burly framed up. Patrick eyed all the décor uncomfortably, feeling even less inclined than usual to make polite conversation to strangers – and noticed an elderly gentleman at the bar beckoning him, sideways-on so Fatty and Brick-Outhouse couldn't see. He nonchalantly sidled over.  
“Nice to meet you, lad. Now I'm warning you, when your friend comes back, you want to get out of here, right sharpish like, you get me. Them blokes there, they don't like being made fools of, and if you like your face the shape it is, you run with it and your friend, ASAP, you understand?”  
Patrick nodded. He understood quite clearly.

Peter stumbled back into the room. Patrick grabbed his arm as if to steady him, and ostentatiously checked  
his watch. “Goodness me! Is _that_ the time? We must run! _Do_ keep the silver on the table!” He swung Peter round and ran with him out the main doors, and silenced Peter's muttering with a hissed “Do you _want_ to get beaten up, you clot?” before the three neckless thugs realised that 40p on the table didn't satisfy their warped sense of honour. The fresh air focused Peter's mind enough to stop him complaining.

Staggering back into the lights of Charing Cross Road, fifteen minutes remaining, Patrick suggested looking in the large bookshop on the corner: "it's horribly expensive, but the art and photography books are wonderful to flip through. Shame there isn't a sale on." And indeed, the Soho Bookshop proved inspiring, perhaps especially given their tipsy state. Peter flipped through a guide on wildlife photography and admired some fine bird shots, while Patrick found himself engrossed in a history of stained glass in England. A short while later, it occurred to him they were probably going to miss the start, but, little bothered, he carried on gazing at the bright coloured pictures, mesmerised. He stood up again, wistfully looked at the price on that tome and some others, and looked about for Peter. 

“Your.. _friend_?” questioned the spiky-haired young man on the counter. "He went downstairs." The man nodded meaningfully to the staircase.   
Patrick fought an attack of giggles. This was _not_ one of the second-hand bookshops with musty paperbacks in the basement. Instead there were wide white steps inviting you to the "Adult Shop". Patrick hadn't been down in this shop, but having nipped into the odd porn shop between Hampstead and school - Soho being handily between the two – he was willing to bet Peter was about to get quite a surprise, even assuming he'd seen dirty mags and video boxes before.

He rolled his eyes and started down the stairs after Peter. The stairs turned halfway down back on themselves, at which point he stumbled and nearly fell. He told himself he must be a bit more drunk than he'd thought, but it was mainly the sudden, well-illuminated, display of model cocks. Well, he assumed they were models. Surely at least some of them would be _way_ too large for anyone to think of...?  
Carefully thinking _not_ of, he looked about for Peter. The room was, as above, painted stark white, only with red and blue lights that had been set up carefully so their beams did not cross – was there some reason to avoid purple light, Patrick wondered? Two rows of shelves, around six feet tall, ran down the middle of the shop, precluding Patrick from telling where Peter's five foot ten might be. He would have to walk all round himself. The first display before him was similar to the Colebridge newsagents' top shelves - Forum, Playboy, various tanned women showing breasts. Unmoved, Patrick placidly turned left.

In front of him, the far wall was displaying equipment _not_ available in Colebridge. Black leather and chrome items hung on hooks, some with picture tags suggesting their use. Patrick blinked, a lot. He took a deep breath, and wandered down the far aisle, glancing at magazine covers, this section mainly showing older men standing over blushing teenage girls. He shrugged, and hoped Peter was in the remaining aisle. Luckily, as soon as he turned past various model cocks labelled 'butt plugs' - presumably _not_ all for display purposes, then? - he saw Peter. Peter was standing holding a video case and staring at it, transfixed. Patrick came behind him, quietly, curious as to what would have affected Peter so much.

The first glance shocked him as much as Peter. The cover image was a photo of a naked man with a distinct resemblance to himself. It took Patrick a second glimpse to reassure himself that it wasn't in fact him, filmed somehow on one of those nightmare school nights when prefects decided one Merrick, P. needed to be made to join in with drunken high jinks. 'Merry Merrick', as they called him sarcastically, was much too prone to introspection and loning, which all stout modern Catholics should avoid, and instead engage if not with good red-blooded rugby and hockey in the day, then at least a pillow fight and round of Soggy Biscuit in the night. He had rapidly decided that being known as a champion wanker was the least worst option, having seen what happened to anyone who tried to refuse the whims of sexually-repressed young men in their dozens, and after that one virtuoso performance had been left mostly alone, possibly because anyone else who found it easy to come with an audience of fit young men didn't want to think about _their_ thought processes, either.

Looking back to Peter and the video box, it was only then Patrick noticed that his lookalike was chained to the bed, leather cuffs round both wrists, linked together and a chain looped round the top of a presumably-sturdy bed. The rest of the shelves before them had similar content - all men, some wearing some leather, most naked, all looking quite different to naked fearful boys at school. These guys _wanted_ to be looked at. Patrick realised he wanted to look at them. “ _Fuck_ ,” he thought.

Peter suddenly noticed Patrick's presence. "This really you?" he slurred, waving the box rather near Patrick's chin. He sounded admiring rather than disgusted, thought Patrick, relieved - and possibly more relieved to note Peter was at least, if not more, drunk than he was, so certainly wouldn't remember anything Patrick had done that night.

They were in full view of the sales counter, with the wall behind lined with hundreds of videos. The assistant - a slim muscled man in his 20s, with a shiny ear stud - _oh god, I'm noticing these things_ \- was watching them with amusement. His customer dispensed with, he flipped up the counter hatch and wandered over to Peter and Patrick.

"Pound gets you ten minutes watching in a booth," the man told them confusingly. He gestured to the opposite wall where three slatted doors had once been painted white, and one was open, showing inside a small cell with a bench to sit on - not so comfortable that you'd want to stay a long time, but serviceable for short periods. It was dimly lit only from outside, and had a flimsy lock. Both like a confessional, realised Patrick, trying not to think about it. Only with a TV screen poking through the white melamine wall instead of a grille, and the bench facing it rather than letting you look sideways, away. Peter pulled a pound coin from his pocket. Dazed and tipsy, Patrick copied him while the man noted a code on the video box, and he let Peter pull him into the cubicle.

It was a tight fit for two, and their thighs rubbed as they sat on the seat. Patrick took a tissue from the handy box on a little shelf and blew his nose. Suddenly the screen burst into dancing static, and a wobbly title screen appeared. Then three people crowded in front of the camera, who spoke cracklingly but then pushed off, leaving the naked man with his chained arms. The camera panned down, stopping to focus on the man's erect cock. In spite of himself, Peter looked across at Patrick to compare. And Patrick saw, and noticed Peter's trousers tenting in the same way as his own. And Peter saw Patrick look. Peter gazed steadily forward at the writhing chained man as he unzipped his fly and flipped his dick out, to rub it slowly up and down. He looked back to Patrick's eye. "Relax. It's what lads do together. All shipshape and Naval fashion, what?" He sounded like his father, thought Patrick, amused, then again hastily blocked his brain from wandering, by focusing hard on the screen. The chained man had rolled over onto his front and was raised on his elbows, rubbing himself against the bed. Patrick was just breathing hard to calm down his paranoid thought that the film-makers had been watching him indulging in his favourite style of self-abuse, when Peter spoke in his ear. "No scars. Guess it's not you after all." 

The Dutch courage rushed to Patrick's head and he retorted, "Disappointed?" 

Peter laughed, and Patrick flushed, ready to run. 

"I'll cope. You're here; he isn't."

Patrick let his breath out. Peter reached over and managed to open Patrick's fly, eyes still on the screen, still talking, probably more to himself than Patrick, "Women for marriage, men for comfort. The Naval Way. Empires built on it, don'tcha know. _A good man makes a good hobby_ , and Foley wasn't talking about carpentry." He started rubbing Patrick's cock, almost angrily.

A light went on in Patrick's head - along with a few stars. 

“Is that why you seemed so gutted when Foley died?”

The hand gripping his cock and balls was now definitely angry, tightly pressing, and Patrick was paying very little attention to anything Peter said. “No. That was all well and good. Except it wasn't, because he was a traitor. So I guess he thought he could make me one too.” Then, coldly: "Wish I'd killed him instead of his boss." 

Patrick's brain let out a " _What?_ ", but his voice produced only " _Aaaah!_ " as Peter's hand created a kind of pain that was intensely pleasurable. He _must_ have misheard, but the idea that this pleasure might be at the hand of a murderer was suddenly intensely erotic. Another man appeared on the screen and knelt on the bed. 

"Shot the bastard. Got a medal somewhere. Not supposed to talk about it." Peter panicked, knowing he'd said too much as it was. He needed to keep his mouth shut and stop Patrick from asking questions. Looking up at the screen for inspiration, where the chained man was back on his back and the second - muscled arms, slim but not skinny like the first - was kneeling between his legs, bringing his head down and taking that stiff cock into his mouth, there was an obvious answer to both problems. Peter dropped to his knees, sideways to Patrick as the floor space wouldn't let Peter face him, pulled Patrick's thigh to make a comfortable chin rest, and vowed to give the best blow job of his life. It wouldn't be that hard - there had only been half a dozen, mostly much more drunken than Peter was now. The exceptions had been Foley, and Peter was really happy to replace that mental image with a different cock, narrower and browner, with less expectation attached to it. He swallowed and sank his face over Patrick's rock-hard penis.

This was a totally new pleasure for Patrick. Guilt, for once, flew out the window as Patrick decided he would worry about a completely new moral philosophy later and right now _carpe diem._ He tried to squirm round to make it easier for Peter, but the space was limited. The man on screen was throwing his head back and moaning in delight and Patrick, trying not to bash his head on the partition, was doing similarly. Peter, for the second time that day, was revelling in showing off. He idly noticed a hole in the door and an eye on a level with his, and winked. He switched to breathing on Patrick's stiff cock, which danced for the voyeur's entertainment as well as Peter's. Peter returned to sucking as Patrick gave a sudden high-pitched moan. 

Patrick squeezed to restrain himself - he couldn't, surely, spray come all over a shop? And over Peter Marlow's face? He realised that actually, Peter Marlow's face dripping with spunk was what he now wanted to see more than anything, and, more importantly, there was about to be _nothing_ he could do about it. And thus the tissues and that little bin, he realised – _you're a right idiot, Merrick_ \- pulling Peter's head off him and jerking juice all down Peter's chin and neck. Seeing Peter stretch his tongue out to lick his lips clean made him come again.

Peter stretched himself and calmly passed the tissues, without looking at Patrick. At that moment, the door lock was flipped up with a piece of wire, and the shop assistant opened the door.

“Right lads, you've had your 20 minutes and then some,” the man said, grinning. "I would let you stay a bit longer but you've encouraged the punters and there's a queue now." Both boys realised the reason for the slatted doors wasn't just because they were cheap at Do It All, but because you could get tantalising glimpses of the other side through them. "So if there's a magazine you'd like, I can give you a good price."  
Peter got to his feet and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Patrick figured the instant composure must be the result of the military training. "Thank you, sir. We will consider your kind offer." Patrick stuffed himself back into his trousers and nudged Peter to do the same, before they exited the cubicle and avoided eye contact with the other men in the shop. They flicked through the plastic-wrapped magazines - the ones with men - not speaking a word, until Peter saw the price sticker on one. "Six quid? I could buy half a Polaroid camera for that!" They agreed that the shop's content was out of bounds, and set to leave. "Nothing else you like, at all?" "Too expensive for my pay grade," replied Peter, using a phrase he'd heard from Edwin. "Or pocket money, more like," replied the assistant jovially. "Do me a favour - don't come in on a Friday after school - that's when the fuzz do their checks for under age, that's under 21, know what I mean? Wednesdays is OK and quiet, though."

Peter pretended to look outraged. "I was born in May 1965, thank you very much!"

"Would make you twenty. Nice try, use that in the pub. See you again, lads." He turned to a paying customer.  
Patrick pulled Peter to the stairs, and they stumbled up them, Peter still tipsy, Patrick oddly light-headed.

Patrick looked at his watch. "How about we go to the theatre in plenty of time for the second half? Then call your place and let them know we'll be late back?"

Peter nodded, then, deliberately, reached over to comb through Patrick's sticking-up hair with his fingers. Patrick reached up and held his wrist. "It's OK. I won't tell anyone."

Peter stiffened, lowered his arm back to his side. "Bout what?"

Patrick's golden-brown eyes bore into him like his hawks' talons as Patrick replied calmly, "I meant Foley. And his boss? Not that I'm planning on telling the world about... the other, either."

Peter looked up to the grey sky, interrupted by the ugly Telecom Tower, and back down to the road. "It was when Ginty and I went to the seaside that time when Lawrie broke her arm. Foley kidnapped us when we got in his way, stuck in the lighthouse. Then his pals came to fetch him and do away with us, just as the Admiralty showed up. Shooting happened. Ginty never said anything?"

Ginty, Patrick thought. A blast from the past. "No. No, she never did."

This rare silence from Ginty made her rise slightly in both their estimations, though in retrospect Peter remembered she'd not seen the shot, nor ever really believed in Foley's treachery nor his willingness to kill them. And perhaps Foley _wouldn't_ have killed Ginty?

They had reached the theatre and Patrick, currently the more presentable, enquired and was advised the interval would commence in approximately twelve minutes, was sold two programmes with erratum sheets, and informed of the way to their seats via the gents. The warmth of the theatre added to Patrick's light-headed feeling. It was hard to tell how drunk Peter might be.

They passed the ice-cream seller setting up, found the gilded door for Gentlemen, and Peter was headed for the mirror to assess the damage when Patrick pulled his sleeve away. Peter must have looked quizzical, as Patrick explained, "I owe you one."

Patrick made for a velvet armchair, but Peter stopped him. "People come early for the interval. I'm not _mad_ keen on being the performance again." They crowded into one generously-sized cubicle - carpeted this time, Patrick noted with amusement, given it was going to be his knees on the floor. Patrick waited for Peter to seat himself - thank goodness the theatre had lids on its loos, so _civilised_ \- and Peter looked at him. "You don't have to, you know."

How could he explain that yes, he did, because it was likely now or never?

"Nor did you," he replied shortly. “Now, are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin." He knelt down before Peter and inhaled deeply. The plush carpet could have been designed for this, he thought. Actually, given what they said about actors, perhaps it had been. He reached up to Peter's crotch and saw Peter looking down at him, with - not exactly lust, certainly not derision - sympathy, maybe? And some arousal and anticipation, that was certain. He managed the button fly - lucky the lower buttons parted by themselves. And Peter's cock automatically popped out of his pants, which solved that puzzle but startled him. He drew back for a moment, then reached for it. The heat of it nearly burnt his hand, and the skin was so wonderfully soft it was like holding a hawk, yet with a steel core. Not nearly as fragile as a bird, and, he remembered, similar to part of his own body. Holding that thought, he squeezed and started to slide his fist up and down this slightly wider cock. Encouraged by Peter exhaling and opening his legs further and leaning back, Patrick took a deep breath and leant forward to suck his first cock.

"You really, really don't have to, you know that? No force, no blackmail, not a word either way, yu knows t'at, dizzent yu, moi dearie?"

Patrick knew what he was going to reply as soon as Peter opened his mouth, and Peter's bloody Mummerzet confirmed it. Even if it did make him relax a bit.

"Peter, _shut the fuck up_. I'm no expert but I think I can figure out how to get your cock in my mouth if you keep your gob shut. But _any_ more stupid voices..." He shook his head in mock-despair, then another inhale - so warm and that _wonderful_ scent hot in his nostrils - and sank his face over Peter's lap. It was hard to hold his jaw open for long, but with a memory of that video, he gave it up and started licking and nibbling the tip. Foreskin - that slit - all amazing and tasty and that jerking against his face... Forget hawks - Patrick felt he finally had a hobby. He slurped experimentally and wondered why on earth boys at his old school were so against the idea. Peter moving against his face was the most amazing thing he had ever felt. Then he heard the outer door open and footsteps trotting urgently into the next door cubicle. Patrick stayed still, frozen, until the door slammed shut and the bolt was shot. They heard an "aah!" and the hiss of piss, but Peter took the opportunity of cover to clench his jaw shut and moan. As soon as there was a flush, Peter spurted hot, salty water into Patrick's mouth and Patrick, caught by surprise, leant back and had to cough. Peter opened his mouth to speak, checked himself in time, and silently passed Patrick some sheets of toilet paper. He nodded his thanks and wiped his face. The other man opened his door and walked out, presumably neglecting to wash his hands. Patrick collapsed in relief into Peter's lap, and Peter stroked his hair,murmuring "it's OK. So good. It's OK," so that Patrick wondered who he was trying to reassure. Then Peter sat up straight, Naval style, come to his senses. "I'd better wash before anyone else comes in. See you in a mo." That said, he lifted Patrick's head gently out of the way, winked at him in presumably friendly fashion, and squeezed round the door. Patrick pulled himself up using the toilet, kicked the door shut, decided he might as well use the facilities. His mouth felt strained and tasted of vinegar, he was probably going to hell... along with 99% of Catholics as well as everyone else. If indeed there _was_ such a concept - which was something he had never doubted before. He scrubbed his face with more bog roll, then decided it was time to come out before Peter worried. Heh, coming out, that was ironic. And not something he was considering, _ever_.

Patrick opened the door and stepped as nonchalantly as he could to where Peter was drying himself with a generous number of the thick paper towels, washed his hands thoroughly - _shame_ though to lose that scent - and combed his hair as best he could with his fingers. Presentable, he decided, just as the door opened and the hordes descended to form an orderly queue.

"Ice cream?" he enquired.

"Let's."

They made it to the usherette before the rush, were impressed by the selection, including both stem ginger and Montezuma chocolate, and found their seats mid-stalls surrounded by empty seats marked by bags and coats and associated detritus of their fellow theatre-goers. They looked at each other ruefully and began to laugh, then laugh, and laugh more. Head bashing the chair, Patrick gasped, "So much for culture! Let me see the programme and what we missed." Peter passed it to him. "Okay. The advisers have been executed and we're about to get the walkover in Harfleur, theft of the plate, then the big battle. And winning Queen Katherine. Point of the whole thing, according to my English teacher. Though he was a _right_ perv, so I wouldn't trust anything _he_ said. _Especially_ 'cos I only got a D for Eng Lit." He stabbed his ice cream viciously with the wooden spoon.

"Was that one of your re-sits?"

" _And_ the rest. How was I supposed to know Ginty was breaking bounds practically daily to chat to me, causing all that hoo-ha, not to mention distracting me from my revision. Your sister has a lot to answer for, young Peter."

Peter made the standard joke for one with six sisters. "Which one?"

Patrick chuckled. "No comment. Not my family."

"Close enough."

"Yeah, but still, _not_ my family." Time to get the elephant to move out of the room. "If you were actually my brother, we wouldn't have..."

They both stood up to let various excuse-mes past, sat down, stood again for a straggling so-sorry, sat again. The three-bells rang. So much for elephants; Patrick concentrated on his ice cream instead. Peter had already scoffed his and kicked the empty tub under his seat, and was reading the cast biographies in the programme, possibly repeatedly - Patrick wasn't sure, but _finally_ there was one bell, a dimming light, the fire curtain split and vanished, revealing the set - a new one, judging by the faint gasps around them. 

From the moment he stepped forth, it was clear who was playing the King, and both boys watched, entranced, as the first battle was won, the rumours spread, "Once more into the breach!" and Agincourt was won, along with Katherine, who, Patrick had to admit, was quite decorative in a way of which his English master would have approved. He considered a whisper in Peter's ear – maybe "wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating toast"? but on balance decided against, seeing as actually, he _would_. His friendship with Peter was blessedly free of such laddish content, and he wanted to keep it that way. Managing to avoid cocking up yet another relationship with a Marlow would be a _really_ good idea at this point. What with his ditching Nicola for Gondal and later Ginty, being blamed for Lawrie's idiocy over the Thuggery, and everything about his relationship with Ginty and the aftermath, he wasn't surprised that Pam Marlow referred to him, tight-lipped, as _That Merrick Boy_ , when she had thought he wasn't there.

_For God and King Harry._.. And the applause, rising to standing ovation for the newcomer who had carried off King Henry with such aplomb. Both were sure that Lawrie would be furious to find that they had caught this seminal performance when _she_ would have appreciated it so much more. "She has a point. Lawrie would at least have turned up!" Patrick grinned at Peter's observation. 

"Let's not mention we didn't, though."   
"'Course not," replied Peter equably, and, checking they had their bags of paperbacks and those all-important return tickets, stood to file out into the street. "Always feels cheeky, this - theatres welcome you in with all their red velvet and gold and marble, then show's over and you're kicked out the back stairs into an alley reeking of piss." Peter sniffed, emulating Sherlock Holmes. “Though _this_ alleyway, Watson, has obviously been recently sluiced and lacks the tell-tale theatre-alley scent of _Homo drunkus_ , er, _incapacitus.”_  
Patrick laughed again. Despite the topics they were carefully not talking about, Peter was being remarkably easy and entertaining company. Even if he never met Peter's cock again.

“Let's walk to Waterloo,” proposed Patrick. Peter, unsure of the route, followed through the greying light. Patrick headed back down Charing Cross Road, past the bookshop they'd been in earlier. "Seriously, Peter, did you not _see_ the bloody neon signs saying Adult Bookstore and all, or were you looking for something in particular?"

Peter blushed visibly. Surely, he couldn't have gone _searching_ for Patrick-inspired porn? 

"Seriously? I was looking for more art books - wanted to draw more nudes - bodies - and assumed they'd be down there, with the usual top shelf mags and a bit more. I wasn't expecting quite such... well, I thought anything with men would be under the counter, knock knock, wink wink, know what I mean guv'nor?” He added, lightly, "Could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw what looked like your pretty mush in _quite_ a predicament."

Patrick didn't answer, but cut down Litchfield Street and thus to Covent Garden, then to the Strand and left to Waterloo Bridge. The sun was going down and as they stepped out enough to see the water, the sunset was reflected back at them. "Dirty old river, must you keep rolling..." sang Patrick.

"Flowing into the night!" added Peter. They sang in unison and found a spot to lean against the rail and admire the view of St Paul's, Tower Bridge, the National, all the boats pink and yellow in the evening light. 

" And I don't... feeeel afraid..."

Both stood with elbows on the balustrade, arms touching, feet touching. "Waterloo Sunset's fii-iiiiine," they finished. They turned to face each other, looking shyly into each other's eyes. Peter opened his mouth a bit to speak, then closed it again. Patrick leaned in a smidgen, then back. Peter coughed as a crowd pushed past. "Best get to the train. Ma will have conniptions if we miss it."

They crossed the bridge and passed through the various tunnels and caverns comprising Cardboard City - they really _did_ reek of piss - and into the white light of the station. They had ten minutes to grab burgers, a four-pack of beers, and to find the train. They were in luck - the secret compartment that many assumed must be first class but was in fact second - " _standard_ ", corrected Patrick's inner trainspotter - was empty, and by spreading themselves and their burger wrappers ostentatiously about, kept it to themselves. The train departed and passengers scurrying along the corridor found places to sit elsewhere. 

Patrick folded all the food wrappers to fit neatly in one drinks cup - _curse_ the IRA for causing all the bins to be removed – then twiddled his fingers, wondering what he could or should do next. He opened his second beer and put his new paperback on his lap.

Peter was now totally sober, but decided best to continue acting a bit tipsy along with drinking his second can. His usual foolish self, really. “Back to the hordes. Thank goodness for my own room - haven of sanity!” He paused for Patrick to make the obvious "Sanity? With you in it?" remark; Patrick tilted his head, acknowledging the opportunity but not actually bothering with it. "How did you find it, going from sole son-and-heir to one of hundreds of pubescent males?"

Patrick shrugged. "How about you, from that household of females to shipsful of testosterone?"

"Well, at least I got a heads-up from Giles as to what I was being chucked into. He wasn't there when I started, graduated the year before, prob just as well, but he did mean I knew what to expect. Didn't get such a shock from initiation rites and all. Some lads never really got over that; one poor sod in my year had to leave, he was so embarrassed, kept breaking down in tears." Peter shook himself. "Horrible."

What on earth? What was this initiation? “We're talking baring one leg and reciting crap about a leather apron and the Grand Architect, right?”

Peter stared back at him. "You what?"

Patrick, confused, explained, "Like in freemasonry, all their rites and rituals."

“Oh, _that_. Prince Charles and all. No. Hell no, couldn't be _more_ unlike... This is the Navy, so tradition means rum, sodomy and the lash. Doubt its changed in the last couple centuries.”

Patrick had his turn to be confused. " You do _what_?"

Peter, still not sure what Patrick's comprehension problem was, explained. "As Giles told it to me, it's how discipline and cohesion has been maintained through the ages: rum - well I think it was vodka punch actually, but I don't really remember. Potent stuff. Sodomy - the seniors get in line and you get to suck a cock until you're told to go to the next one, to get them all hard. Then they draw lots for the new cadets and, well, sodomy, natch. And finally a classic six of the best just to make sure all new boys have a really sore arse before sitting on all those rather hard benches on ships and in lectures for however long... provides for a distraction..." Peter's recount petered out as he saw Patrick looking at him in pure horror. "What? Not the same at your place, then?"

Patrick had gone hoarse. " They..." He resorted to a hand gesture, thrusting his thumb crudely in and out of a fist. He couldn't manage to speak the word 'rape'. 

Peter turned away the smallest fraction. "I got fucked, yeah." He spun back to face Patrick, chin defiantly up. "And it wasn't the terrible thing you think. I mean, it wasn't exactly comfy, cos the chap doing it was pissed too and not like he was doing it for me, but given I was chilled out about it, well OK, pissed as a newt, _he_ was trying for it not to hurt - god, I must have shat out a whole jar of Vaseline over the next few days - it was just one of those weird rituals _dear_ Blighty does so well.”

Patrick tried to make sense of all this. "So's why you looking so embarrassed then?"

Peter looked away again. Patrick twigged. "You weren't supposed to like it?"

The flaming on Peter's face seemed to burn Patrick. Peter's chin made the tiniest nod.

"And you liked it." It was a statement, not a question. Patrick tried to figure out why he'd needed to clarify exactly what Peter was admitting to. His groin told him in a moment: realising he had met someone who had fulfilled his own most shameful fantasy, that such people really existed because here he was, in a train compartment with him, and that Peter certainly wasn't disgusted by the idea, was the hottest thing since - well, since finding Peter Marlow kneeling in front of him earlier that day. Or since he'd likewise knelt before Peter. Not sure. So hard to say.

It dawned on him that Peter was starting to speak, aggressively. He turned in to hear "so yeah, ...a fucking poof, happy now?"

Patrick was dazed – what on earth was Peter upset about? Because upset he clearly was - that _might_ even be a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. Peter wiped his sleeve past his face and returned to the defiant glare. Very Fob-like. She must be influencing him, thought Patrick, amused. Though noting Peter's look of fury, he wasn't going to mention that. Instead: "Peter, what is your fucking problem? You get fucked, by all accounts not exactly consensual but not traumatic either, and it felt quite good and you enjoyed it a bit. That's normal, surely? Doesn't make you a” - he couldn't force himself to say the word, so skipped to the next sentence: “Blame your prostate – oh, didn't you do _any_ Biology? No? Well it's the bit that makes spunk that likes it when you get fucked. Or so I'm told. Not that my bio teacher put it _quiiiite_ like that..."

"You're not... "

"Not what? Repulsed and shocked that the guy whose cock was in my mouth two hours ago once had someone's cock up his arse? Or was it a regular thing? Game of pool, winner fucks the loser every night? Or the other way round? That how you got so good at pool? No? Honestly, Peter, you are a clot!"

Peter, who had been shaking his head in denial - "only the once", he murmured – was now laughing. "They didn't leave the pool table in the house, then? No? Rowan and Giles taught me, soon's I could see over the baize. Then I practised with Lawrie and Nick. A lot. Here's a tip - never, _ever_ , play pool with my sisters for money! _Fiendish_ , they are. Though might be out of practice - that Kingscote place doesn't sound like it would permit it...”

"Permit sexual hazing?" Patrick feigned incomprehension - he just couldn't let it rest.

"Good _god_ , don't go there! This is my six good sisters you're speculating about, so no, _certainly_ not!" 

"Probably not, no," agreed Patrick. " They say that's the reason for differences between men and women - boys have sex at boarding school, girls don't."

Peter eyed him curiously. " So what was it like at your place? Papist phallus-worship all day long? Dodgy priests?"

Patrick grew serious. "Not exactly." In response to Peter's questioning look, "Sex happened. Well, mostly oral sex, hand jobs. Mostly. But always... when the seniors demanded it, or made you do it to someone else so they could watch and point and laugh. Or just remind kids of what an insignificant heels they were. It was all... _cruel_. It was cruel. Oh, there were a few pervy priests who liked a bit of a grope, especially during a caning – probably the only reason corporal punishment still exists, seeing as anyone would prefer that to the alternatives, running 20 times round the pitches at 6am or whatever. But they were fine in comparison."

He couldn't parse Peter's expression. It was – kind? "Don't worry, I got off lightly. It was basically a way of bullying, and I've always been good at hiding. And running. Not drawing attention to myself. So, Merrick junior, _virgo intacta,_ had a few cocks shoved in my face going 'Yah! Boo!' - _pathetic_ , really. And then one time when I got dragged along - literally, feet hardly touching the ground - and it was made clear a game was starting, and this time I _was_ joining in or else my arse mightn't be so comfy later, so I had better prove my manhood quick smart by getting my tackle out and spraying a quite horrible-looking pile of cake in the middle of this ring of lads. Including all the prefects."

Peter held his breath.

"So obvs I went along with it. Twenty pairs of eyes, all staring at my cock. I was fucking terrified and trying not to show it, which meant I was stiff as steel. And some guys - including two of the ones who'd frogmarched me down there, were clearly really looking and wanting, you know what I mean? At me. _Wanting_ my cock. So being watched, admired, and scared, it was _the_ most erotic thing ever, and I came practically as soon as I touched myself. Followed a bit later by my captors, so while they were still woozy, I politely excused myself and exited stage left, sharpish before anyone had another bloody great idea. Got left alone after that. Unlike some _other_ poor sods."

Peter laughed at Patrick's tale, then winced in sympathy. It then dawned on him. "So...in the theatre...that was your first time?"

Patrick nodded, in sudden fear that it had been a sub-standard performance.

"Wow. I mean, I'm not _actually_ a connoisseur of these things, but that was fucking fantastic. I'd never have guessed."

The alcohol must not have left his brain when his liver had cleaned most of his blood, Patrick decided, as the next thing he heard was his own voice asking softly, "Would you like to be a connoisseur of such things?"

Peter looked suddenly terrifyingly sober and serious. Patrick cringed inside - you _moron_ , Merrick - and tried to drop his paperback accident-on-purpose so he could bend down and hide his face for a moment, but the treacherous book only slipped into the seat, so he could only fumble for a too-brief moment before being socially forced to sit upright again.

Peter, usually the gobshite spewing forth words, was starting to speak, slowly. "If you mean, am I gay - no. Girls do it for me and _one_ day,” he snorted at the idea, “I want a girlfriend, get married, have my own family, all that..." He continued to look straight ahead, focusing on the advert for Value Holidays In Bournemouth. "But, in the meantime... It's not that I'm not fussy... wouldn't let just anyone... but not bothered if they're male. And given the shortage of willing girls in my social circle... OK, any girls... why not enjoy myself?” He shrugged. “Most of the guys do the same. Passes the time on board ship. _Denial never got anyone anywhere, old chap,_ " he added, in his best Rear-Admiral voice. "No relationships, just friends who – who do friends favours, yeah?"

"And don't exactly suffer in the process," Patrick remarked sarcastically, suddenly feeling more relaxed than he'd ever been, then back to that whirlpool in the guts when Peter replied, "It's different for you, isn't it?"

"Wh- what?" Patrick sputtered. _Oh, very cool, Merrick,_ taunted the little voice in his brain.

"Girls. You're not actually interested in them that way, are you?" Patrick remembered, too late, that Peter's constant wittering always distracted you from noticing how perceptive he actually was, until he made you notice. Patrick didn't answer, then tried a couple versions of "mm" for non-committality. "It's OK, you know. Seems to be getting quite popular, going for men as much or more than women. Freddie Mercury, Jimmy Somerville, Elton John..."

"Freddie Mercury?"

"Swings _enthusiastically_ both ways, by all accounts. Even the NME are saying it. Makes you feel a bit different about I Want to Break Free, and Hammer to Fall, doesn't it?"

Patrick hummed a moment, recalling the lyrics. "Oh, _yes_!"

"And, apparently, George Michael is 100% gay."

At this, Patrick coughed on his swig of lager. "No. Way. What, him and Andrew Ridgeley? You can _not_ be serious!"

“Serious, McEnroe. Though I guess _not_ Andrew Ridgeley, or the rumour would be Wham! are gay, not just George.”

“Get away. I'll believe you on Freddie Mercury and Elton,” - the back of his mind was already happily convinced about what Mr Mercury might be like with more kit off - “Communards like _derr_ \- but no _way_ is George Michael a poof!”

He'd said the word, the word he'd lived in terror of.

Peter shrugged. "Just saying that's what guys are saying and the press is dropping those hints, pretty damn heavily."

"Don't believe it."

"Don't, then. But betcha. Pint says George Michael gets outed in the next - ooh - five, no, make it ten years, be on the safe side."

"You're on." Patrick pretended to scribble in an imaginary diary. "Peter to pay for drinks on April 3rd, 1995. _George_ _Michael,_ as if!"

"Excellent distraction skills there, Mr Merrick. Now I deduce - we have eliminated the probable and the waffle and all that remains - is the truth!" Peter was pulling his best Jeremy Brett-as Holmes impression, and Patrick felt naked. Like one of those in-Assembly-in-your-pants dreams, only horrifyingly real.

"You, Patrick Merrick, are gay, terrified people will find out, scared of their reaction - possibly with good reason seeing the repressed violence at your old place, and probably have a huge dose of Catholic guilt to go with it. And don't know what to do about producing a son-and-heir as required." Peter churched his hands, fingers longer than Patrick had noticed before, very like Brett's Holmes. "How am I doing so far?"

Patrick nodded, stunned to muteness, unnerved by Peter's mind-reading.

"And, being a teenage boy you have natural urges - or unnatural urges, what _ever_ \- and now are worrying 'cos you think I'll be scared you want a relationship and I don't, but strewth, we both know you're not going to have a relationship with me, pretty sure you don't have anything beyond being a mate of one Cadet P. Marlow, so if you can just chill the fuck out, then I'm quite happy to liven up a hols full of revision, if you read me."

Patrick felt the burning of his cheeks fade and the knots in his stomach start to straighten themselves out.

"Patrick? Say something, you insufferable git. What was your original question again?"

"Can't remember. Something along the lines of what you just answered. Basically, do you want more like today, no strings attached, even if you aren't actually gay."

Peter shrugged, stretched his arms up above his head. "Take my opportunities where I can. Your place or mine?"

"You, young Peter, need to complete all your homework first. I'm not having it said That Merrick Boy has screwed up yet another Marlow's prospects..."

"Only Latin left of the compulsory. Mostly I'm working on science to make sure..." He stopped.

“?”

"Sure-of-a-scholarship-to-Colebridge-Grammar-for-A-levels." Peter finished, gabbling. "Don't tell anyone - I haven't told the folks yet, but there is _no way on earth_ I'm staying on at Dartmouth beyond O's. They've been quite good in their way, getting couple of their engineers in to help me with Advanced Maths and suggesting I might want to do a Navy-sponsored engineering degree...”

"And might you?"

"Engineering _maybe_ , Naval strings and cash not so sure, really want to escape the fucking Navy and everything to do with it ASAP, but natch I said, all polite, 'it was an option to seriously consider'. What I'd _really_ like to do is civil engineering and get into at architecture from that angle, but not too sure how it works, so right now, just thinking about the O-levels, then A-levels and uni. Maybe even Oxford, to break the family curse on applying to the place! But _first_ , need to tell Ma I'm not going to Dartmouth from September and will be knocking about at home.” He grimaced. "Could be worse, I suppose - could be being kicked out for being gay or something - oh, _sorry,_ god, _ouch_ and all - it does happen in the Service, couple times a year - don't know if people will assume I'm being pushed for being shit at officer-ness or that or anything. Another reason to try to get brilliant results.”

"Well, telling her would give you a great excuse to push over to mine after, let her simmer down, wouldn't it?"

Peter brightened, sat straighter. "OK. You're on. Oh - here's Colebridge. Let's see if anyone's here to spare us the walk - ah, Rowan!"

Both disappointed to miss a private walk home, but not to miss the three mile hike part of it, they climbed into the Marlow vehicle. The journey was filled by explaining how how _fuming_ Lawrie would be to have missed this seminal performance, until Peter nudged Patrick to get out at Merriot Chase, let his hand drag over Patrick's crotch as Patrick turned to get out, and Patrick, humming happily, strolled up the drive to home, considered whether he'd confess in full on Sunday, decided some things were best resolved privately between him and God, and planned to release all tension before sleep with some _deeply_ inappropriate thoughts about Freddie Mercury.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Marlow fic. Actually my first fic ever released for others to read. It got longer and more explicit than originally planned! 
> 
> It's set in April 1985, after Patrick has been at a London day school for two terms. The discussion about sexuality is based on my own experiences and others' recollections of the 1980s.
> 
> Peter loses his bet, because George Michael was only outed publicly in April 1998.


End file.
